Of Doctors and Detectives
by solauzish
Summary: Sherlock/John drabbles.
1. Sherlock's stopwatch experiment

Title: Of Doctors and Detectives  
Chapter Summary: Sherlock has fun with John and a stopwatch.

* * *

"John!" The yell is loud, piercing and most definitely Sherlock.

Of course, John immediately thinks the worst and leaps out of his bed. He scrambles on the floor in search of the bare essentials and then races downstairs. His face is a comical shade of tomato red and his breathing is ragged and heavy.

Living with Sherlock is dangerous. John would even say it's as dangerous as Afghanistan. The Doctor had wanted danger back then and still does now. Of course John still has memories of war, they lurk in the back of his mind during the day and haunt his dreams each night. The deluge of blood, the deafening roar of guns and the screams of pain; the screams of death.

John had learnt a long time ago that although being with Sherlock is dangerous, it's a very different danger to that of Afghanistan. It's thrilling, the rush of adrenaline which courses through his veins as they run through the streets of London in seach of yet another villain...

Sherlock is sprawled across the sofa in the living area, his beloved skull cradled in the crook of his arm - it had took a week to get it back from Mrs. Hudson and he vowed never to let it out of his sight again - and a stop-watch in the palm of his left hand. He stops the timer the moment John speeds into view.

The stocky man glares accusingly at him; Sherlock struggles to hide his amusement.

"What on earth are you _doing_," John rages, clenching his fists into balls. He feels ridiculous stood infront of the Detective wearing nothing but his underwear and a solitary sock.

"I was timing how long it took for you to rush to my aid" Sherlock replies innocently. He acts as though it's the most obvious thing he could be doing in the morning. It probably is in his mind, John thinks to himself.

John crosses his arms over his chest like a petulant child and walks towards the kettle. He flicks the switch and begins organising mugs and teaspoons while he waits for the water to boil. "How did I do, anyway?" He asks, curious despite himself.

"I was expecting better," Sherlock shrugs. "18.93 seconds - if I were in any real danger I'd probably have been dead by the time you got downstairs. You didn't even bring your gun!"

"You stole my gun when you were bored yesterday!" John retorts.

Sherlock pouts. "I could've died!"

"I send my deepest apologies to the family and friends of metaphorical Sherlock," John snorts with amusement.

Sherlock laughs with him, "I'll pass that message on later - right now we've got somewhere to be!"

"Well then," John exclaims quickly abandoning the half-made tea in favour of a crime scene, "Lets get going!"

"As amusing as it would be for you to head over to a crime scene wearing _that_, I do believe you'd be more comfortable wearing something else. People might talk," Sherlock smirks his eyes fixed on John's uncovered chest in a pointed manner.

"They already do," John chortles heading for the stairs.


	2. Checkmate

Title: Of Doctors and Detectives  
Chapter Summary: Sherlock and John play a game of chess.

* * *

That was an obvious move," Sherlock scrutinizes from his position on the armchair.

There's an air of smugness about him which makes the other man growl under his breath. John doesn't know why he's even wasting his time on this stupid game; stupid according to Sherlock, that is. He isn't a great fan of chess under any normal circumstances, having Sherlock as his opponent certainly isn't to be considered a normal circumstance and this makes the game, in a word, insufferable.

Obvious.

The word causes cracks to appear in John's normally cool composure; it makes him want to scream at the man sitting opposite him until he understands basic human emotion. How is it that one innocently spoken word can cause so much inner-turmoil and paranoia? Deep down John already knows why it matters so much.

He's not completely stupid: he's always known that Sherlock enjoys using people to his advantage, probably even uses John, too.

John, however, has always managed to delude himself into thinking he means something else to the Detective. He deludes himself into thinking the friendship he feels is requited and that Sherlock would never be his friend out of something as trivial as convenience.

Still, John knows deep down that he's the same as any other person to Sherlock.

Obvious, predictable and boring.

Oh, yes. John hates those words.

The Doctor wants desperately to wipe the smug smile from the detective's face. He wants to blind those piercing blue eyes that read him so easily.

He smiles, soft and sweet, and he rids himself of all the rational, what he _should _do thoughts and, instead, does what comes naturally.

The expression on Sherlock's face as he leans closer is brilliant, priceless, he looks the most confused John's ever seen him but something's not right - he isn't moving away.

John panics, he's close enough to touch him, to kiss him even. Suddenly this isn't John proving how spontaneous he can be, this is John leaning in with the sole intention of _kissing _Sherlock Holmes.

And he does. It's short, chaste and yet so much emotion leaks between them in that moment.

"I wasn't expecting that," Sherlock admits with a sheepish smile.

John smiles faintly. He leans back and moves his pawn forward, "Sherlock?"

"What is it John?" Sherlock asks, still dazed from the kiss.

"Checkmate"

Sherlock swears.


	3. Date night causes fights

Title: Of Doctors and Detectives  
Chapter Summary: John has a date and Sherlock isn't happy. Neither is John.

* * *

"I'm going now but i'll be back later tonight," John says.

He's been preoccupied with adjusting his tie and tweaking his hair infront of the mirror for the past hour. Maybe even longer.

Sherlock watches him from his position on the armchair.

John notices this from the reflection in the mirror and recognises the look immediately; it's the scrutinizing look the Detective gives when trying to work out a particularly hard to solve puzzle.

It unnerves John to know that he's currently the subject of Sherlock's intense scrutiny. "What?" He demands, turning his back to the mirror he stares directly back at his flatmate.

"It's a date," Sherlock accuses. The accusation hangs in the air around them like a foul stench.

"I told you I'm going to the pub for a drink. Alone," John glares back at him defiantly.

Sherlock looks at him, surprised.

"Do you really think you can lie to me?" He asks. Sherlock feels suddenly hurt for reasons logic can't explain and so he chooses to ignore it completely.

John doesn't answer. He's trying to make out he's focused on the television but Sherlock knows it's an act. "You're wearing aftershave. You never wear aftershave," he explains in a whisper. His voice is barely audible against the buzz of the television but John hears it loud and clear.

"Damn it, Sherlock!" John explodes into raw rage. His stony expression is betrayed by emotion filled eyes but Sherlock focuses on neither. Instead the Detective stares down at his feet like a scolded child.

"Why do you even care what my intentions are? I'm going on a date with a _woman_-" an intentional jibe at him there "-and yes, I will have sex with her and probably never see her again. Are you happy now?"

Sherlock flinches and John's expression immediately softens as his anger fades. "I don't know," Sherlock admits meekly.

"Right," John sighs.

He sounds both disappointed and upset by Sherlock's response. It's almost as though he's been hoping for something else which Sherlock hasn't given yet.

The silence drags on around them, only it doesn't feel like silence at all; it's filled by too much awkwardness and too many thoughts, feelings and unspoken questions to be anything like silence.

It's deafening and the atmosphere is so tense neither dares to move for fear of unsettling things further.

It feels like hours have passed when John finally sighs. He looks defeated as he makes towards the door. "I'll speak to you later, Sherlock," he says.

Sherlock looks up. His eyes are filled with something John doesn't recognise and doesn't really want to question.

The stocky man pauses at the door for a moment, hand hovering beside the handle. Sherlock thinks he's still searching for what he couldn't earlier find. It's another awkward moment, neither man is sure of what to say or do.

That's when Sherlock finally realises just what John was looking for.

His brain has been working overtime trying to make sense of all the unfamiliar emotions flooding through him. Suddenly he knows exactly what to say to make everything better between himself and John.

But now it's too late. John's left and Sherlock's alone, staring at the empty space John had once filled.

"I love you," Sherlock says to the empty space.

He's not scared of saying those words where no-one can hear them.


	4. Sherlock, John and the jumper

Title: Of Doctors and Detectives  
Chapter Summary: Sherlock finds John's utterly ridiculous christmas jumpers utterly irresistible.

* * *

It's winter; even ordinary people with the most primitive deduction skills can figure that out.

One fleeting glance out of the window tells Sherlock it's begun to snow again in the streets of London.

Ah. John won't be in a good mood when he gets in then.

Sherlock knows he doesn't make things easier for the other man; he forgets that after racing through the alleys of London until 3am John has a job to get up for 3 hours later. Sherlock feels a sudden pang of something in his chest. Guilt? No, that's impossible.

The door opens and there John stands, red-faced and shivering from the cold outside.

His fingers are curled tightly around the old cane for support and also to stop the tremor in his left hand. His knuckles are pale white.

John shuts, or rather slams, the door behind him and proceeds to pace the flat. He's cursing under his breath - something about the 'stupid ice' and his 'blasted leg'.

Sherlock watches him with interest, his piercing blue eyes following the Doctor as he limps from one side of the flat to the other.

For once John doesn't seem to notice the scrutinizing eyes watching him intently. Sherlock takes advantage of this distraction.

John isn't an unattractive man. As a matter of fact, Sherlock happens to think he's quite pleasant on the eyes.

The man in question is still limping back and forth, back and forth. It's fascinating and almost hypnotic. Sherlock's eyes return to the other man's face where a disgruntled expression is creased on his features.

John's light-brown hair is tousled from the wind and flakes of snow adorn his winter attire.

Sherlock very nearly laughs out loud at the sheer volume of clothes and the audacity John _must _have in order to wear them. The oversized, pale green reindeer jumper is thankfully mostly hidden by the full-length coat and an unevenly knitted scarf is wound around his neck loosely. Sherlock recognises the scarf to have been an early christmas present from Mrs. Hudson.

"Do be quiet, John, i'm trying to think," Sherlock shushes him with a fond smile.

John obliges and the room is engulfed in silence. Infact, John is scarcely breathing for fear of interrupting an important trail of thought.

"What about?" John finally demands having lost patience after a few minutes of silence. He perches on the edge of the sofa beside Sherlock.

"You," Sherlock replies bluntly.

"What about me?" John coaxes, face softening as his mood improves.

Sherlock likes being the one to improve John's mood, he realises, reaching to caress John's face with elegantly long fingers. He's curious more than anything.

"About how irresistible you look in that jumper," Sherlock smirks before clutching said article of clothing and pulling John in for a passionate kiss.

John complies.


	5. In sickness and in health

Title: Of Doctors and Detectives  
Chapter Summary: John is ill, Sherlock looks after him.

* * *

"Sherlock?" John calls out.

His voice is noticeably muffled but this is probably more to do with the blankets he's been swamped with rather than being an effect of the illness.

John hates being ill and more than that he hates being out of control. He supposes as a Doctor he makes a terrible patient.

"What is it, John?" Sherlock asks from somewhere in the room.

John feels far too groggy to leave the comfort of his home-made nest to check exactly where in the room he is. He does, however, close his eyes and allow himself to be soothed by the familiarity of the voice.

"Do you really think it nessecary I have three blankets?" John questions in a small voice.

He doesn't feel guilty being wrapped up in his own blanket, he doesn't even feel guilty about having Sherlock's blanket but when Sherlock insisted upon breaking into Mrs. Hudson's flat for a third blanket that was a step too far. He buries his face further into Sherlock's blanket. He breaths in the scent as best he can with a blocked up nose.

"It says on the internet that you need to keep warm," Sherlock says. He sounds a mixture of concerned and uncertain.

John smiles fondly. He isn't surprised that Sherlock knows so little about the common cold. It's not something that's likely to come up in a life or death scenario or in the midst of an investigation. It's unimportant knowledge and so Sherlock will have deleted it a long time ago.

"Come warm me up then," John jokes.

Sherlock takes him seriously and carefully adjusts John's position so there's enough room on the sofa for the both of them.

John rests his head against the other man's shoulder. "You do know that if you stay under here you're going to catch it too?" John mutters with a small sniffle.

"It's worth the risk," Sherlock decides.


	6. Until death do us part I

Title: Of Doctors and Detectives  
Chapter Summary: In the movies, the hero never dies. But this is reality and in reality there is very rarely a happy ending.

* * *

John Watson lies motionless on the floor.

Blood is seeping slowly into the fabric of his shirt and the putrid stench makes his stomach lurch violently.

In the movies, people on the verge of death (and he knows, deep down, he's one of them) think of their friends, family and all the things they've done wrong in their life. John simply thinks of how many clichés surrounding death are false. He doesn't _feel _cold, although medical training tells him his body temperature is dropping as his heart beats slower. He doesn't see any bright lights in the distance, either. Ah well...

"John?"

Oh god. John doesn't think he can listen to Sherlock's genuine concern. It hurts; it hurts him far worse than any of the physical pain he's been in for the past half hour.

Mentally, John Watson calculates the time he's liable to have left. Not much longer.

He can hear Sherlock's voice again but this time it's far-away and quiet, John can't make out the words but can tell from the urgency in his voice that he's asking for - no, demanding - an ambulance.

John doesn't have the heart - or the energy - to tell him that it's much too late for that.

"If you leave...I'll have no-one," Sherlock says softly.

He sounds like he's choking back tears but John dismisses this thought; Sherlock never cries.

John wants to block out all of the heart-wrenching words and emotion but he has no choice but to listen, silent and waiting for the inevitable to happen.

Damn Sherlock for making him care about whether he lives or dies.

"I-I'm sorry," John replies quietly.

The effort of speech causes waves of pain to rip through his body, both physical and emotional. He doesn't try to say or do anything more, but he now realises there is a lot he _wants _to say and do.

Is the regret part of the death cliché finally rearing it's ugly head?

Sherlock shifts his position slightly so he's now in John's very limited line of sight. He looks oddly beautiful from this angle. His hair is dishevelled and his pallid skin is paler than John remembers it ever being.

Perhaps Sherlock is capable of feeling human emotion afterall.

"It's not your fault," Sherlock says eventually. He's been looking at John with that scrutinizing stare he's gifted with.

John _can_ see bright lights in the distance now. Not the supernatural kind, though; the lights John can see are flashing blue and are accompanied by a droning siren.

He's so tired now and darkness welcomes him with open arms. He's probably been living on borrowed time for the past few minutes, desperate for life to go on. In the movies, the good guys never die. But this is reality and in reality there's rarely a happy ending...

"Don't you dare give up," Sherlock snaps as though he can read his thoughts.

John can feel moisture building up on his cheeks as he involuntarily cries without movement and without sound. He feels Sherlock's fingers brush against his cheeks as he wipes away the salty tears.

He hates this new-found vulnerability.

The ambulance finally stops outside 221b Baker street. The lights are flashing persistently through the window making his eyes ache. John can hear heavy footsteps running up the stairs and watches helplessly from the floor as Sherlock leaves to open the door.

His eyelids have grown heavy now, fatigue overwhelming his pained body.

It's the ever-waiting darkness that finally engulfs John Watson.


	7. Until death do us part II

Title: Of Doctors and Detectives  
Chapter Summary: Follows on from the previous chapter.

* * *

Death is easy; it's peaceful and painless. Life is so much harder than death, because in life you're fragile and vulnerable. But that's the thing about life, John supposes, it's always worth the pain - in the end.

John can't say exactly how much time has passed since the ambulance arrived at 221b Baker Street. It could've been minutes, hours or even days ago; slipping in and out of consciousness regularly makes keeping track of time difficult, to say the least.

It unnerves John to know that life has, indeed, carried on without him. In the grand scheme of things, he isn't all that important. Sherlock, on the other hand? Life in which Sherlock does not exist isn't even worth thinking about.

"Are you awake?" Sherlock asks tentatively from the chair beside him.

It's a strenuous task, but John eventually manages to open his eyes in response. Light filters in through his half-lidded eyes and floods his vision. He grumbles incoherently and waits for his eyes to adjust to the lighting.

"How long have I been out?" He asks groggily.

"Couple of days," Sherlock replies.

John begins to inspect his surroundings absent-mindedly. There's nothing particularly out of the ordinary; the room is small, white and sterile - no different to any other hospital room. Neither man speaks, not for lack of things to say but because both are perfectly comfortable with the silence and the refuge it offers.

"I thought you were..." Sherlock is the first to break the silence, he hesitates in completing his sentence.

"You were wrong," John delicately interrupts.

"I'm glad."

"You know what? I think this is the first time you've been in a hospital and not visited the morgue," John jokes in an attempt to lighten the mood.

"It'd be a lie to say I haven't been tempted," Sherlock chuckles.

"If I get back to find I've been replaced by another head, there'll be trouble!" John grins.

Sherlock looks to the floor, face void of emotion.

"Maybe you shouldn't come back," he suggests.

John searches Sherlock's expression, desperately trying to find something to prove he isn't serious. He finds nothing. "I don't understand," he says eventually.

"It's too dangerous."

"I don't care," John insists, blinking back the tears that threaten to fall.

John doesn't want to, doesn't think he can, go back to the person he was before meeting Sherlock. He was boring, mundane, 'nothing happens to me' John Watson back then. The thought of returning to that pathetic excuse of a life makes him panic.

Sherlock stands up and John immediately turns his face away; he can't bring himself to watch him walk out of his life. "John, look at me," Sherlock urges softly, his elegantly long fingers reach out to touch John's cheek. "Do you remember what Moriarty said?"

"Yes," John replies.

"He said he was going to burn the heart out of me."

"I know."

"Don't you understand?" Sherlocks demands, exasperated. "He knows how to hurt me - and that's through you. You make me weak, John."

"It's not weakness to care. You're only human, Sherlock."

"I just don't want to be alone again."

John smiles sadly, wrapping his arms around Sherlock's thin frame and pulling him forcefully into a hug. It's awkward and the weight against his bandaged wound hurts but it's nessecary. "You won't be alone. We will get Moriarty, I promise you."

Sherlock nods his head against the warmth of John's body.

Life is harder than death, and being human can hurt. In life you're fragile and vulnerable. But that's the thing about life, Sherlock supposes, it's always worth the pain - in the end.


	8. Arachnophobia and the results of which

Title: Of Doctors and Detectives  
Chapter Summary: Sherlock has an irrational fear, John tries to help.

* * *

It's not something most people would notice. Even to the keen-eyed Sherlock Holmes it almost manages to go unnoticed; it's just a blur of movement spotted out of the corner of his eye, but it's enough to send him into a panic.

Sherlock leaps from the floor and onto his armchair in one fluid motion. His fingers are soon curled around a discarded newspaper, rolled-up and poised for the attack, so tightly that his knuckles turn a startling shade of white. He can hear his heart thudding uncontrollably in his chest, his eyes are darting rapidly around the room in search of the enemy.

"John?" He clears his throat nervously, hoping for John to come downstairs soon.

How can John have the audacity to continue writing his damned blog in a situation as urgent as this?

When his flat-mate doesn't immediately appear, Sherlock hastily drops the newspaper and reaches for a more lethal weapon - John's gun.

**BANG. BANG. BANG BANG BANG.**

John appears in the room within an instant. At least the gun-shots got his attention, Sherlock muses.

The expression on John's face would've been highly amusing to the Detective had it not been for his current state of mind.

Sherlock continues to frantically shoot bullets at the living room floor. John can't help but notice his closed eyes and careless aim.

For a moment the Doctor considers that Sherlock is frightened, but he quickly dismisses the idea; Sherlock doesn't have fears...Does he?

Eventually the shooting comes to a halt. John doesn't know whether this is because Sherlock's calmed down or because he's finally run out of ammo. The latter seems to be the most likely reason.

"Sherlock?" John walks slowly towards the other man. His hands are held out palm-first infront of him, as though he's worried incase Sherlock intends to have a second violent outburst.

"Yes, John?" Sherlock replies some-what pleasantly, not moving away from the refuge of the armchair.

John raises one, solitary eyebrow. "Would you care to explain what the _fuck _the floor ever did to you?" He waves a hand towards the destroyed floor-boards. Sherlock follows the motion with blank eyes.

"I was defending myself." Sherlock purses his lips. His face is a likeness to that of a defiant child.

"Against what, exactly?" John tilts his head to the side in confusion. He considers invisible assassins and shrunken snipers but the logical, more sensible part of his mind points out they are both unlikely, even in Sherlock's rather eccentric world.

Sherlock avoids John's accusing gaze and stares shamefully down at his feet. "Don't laugh." The words are barely audible but it's a demand all the same.

John still looks confused but nods his head in agreement. Sherlock takes a deep breath. "A spider," he breathes.

It's an embarassing thing to admit to. Sherlock prides himself on his bravery and outstanding intellect yet here he is, cowering from a spider he _knows_ from fact and logic can't hurt him. It's utterly humiliating but the moment he catches a glimpse of the eight-legged creature he's completely overwhelmed by fear.

The edges of John's lips are twitching upwards ever so slightly in amusement but somehow he maintains composure. "Oh," he says after a long pause. Sherlock can feel his cheeks burning. He curses his irrational fear for making him look a complete fool infront of John.

"Are you going to come down from there at some point?" John asks, nodding his head towards the armchair.

Sherlock's eyes dart nervously from John to the floor and then back to John's dark brown eyes. "I think I prefer it here," he replies meekly.

"Hm." John hums to himself thoughtfully before disappearing into the kitchen. He returns a moment later carrying a glass and sheet of paper. "Where is it?"

"Over there." Sherlock points towards the opposite armchair in a matter of seconds. His keen eyesight picking up the spider's movement in a matter of seconds.

John kneels down with the glass and paper, emerging a minute or so later with a triumphant grin.

"I got it!" He announces gleefully, taking the glass to the open window and emptying it's contents. "Happy now?"

"Very," Sherlock admits with a sheepish smile.

"I can't believe you're scared of _spiders_. Of all the things you could be-" John stops mid-sentence, silenced by Sherlock's impressive glare.


	9. Sherlock, John and the closet

Title: Of Doctors and Detectives  
Chapter Summary: John and Sherlock are in the closet. Literally.

* * *

John is far too close to Sherlock.

Infact, he's pressed so tightly against him he can hear his heart beating - soft, steady and slow. It's rhythmic, reliable and consistent; John thinks it's the only thing about Sherlock that is any of those things.

He can feel his own heart beating too - erratic, loud and fast. John inwardly groans and prays - no matter how futile doing so is - that Sherlock hasn't noticed.

He doesn't like the silence - he never has. Sherlock is used to it, sometimes he doesn't speak for days. John hates those days, they make him feel more alone than ever; disconnected from the person he - for some reason or another - has grown to rely on so quickly.

It's silent now, too, but John supposes silence is neccesary when you're hiding in a cupboard in Anderson's flat. He doesn't even remember the reason Sherlock gave for breaking into the flat, probably did it just for some pointless experiment, but John doesn't _really _care. Sherlock just had to call and John would eagerly come running, psychosomatic limp forgotten.

"I think it was just a false alarm," Sherlock breathes after a few minutes of intent listening.

John nods his head distractedly in response, unaware the darkness caused his gesture to go unseen.

If they were an inch closer Sherlock probably could've felt the nod of John's head against his chest. John mentally cursed the difference in height.

"John? Are you alright?" Sherlock's voice causes him to emerge from his daydreams.

"I'm fine, Sherlock." John breathes in the Detective's familiar smell.

Wait...When did _Sherlock's _smell become familiar? Oh god what's happening to him?

"Are you sure?" Sherlock doesn't sound convinced. John isn't remotely surprised.

John senses the movement of Sherlock's arm long before his fingers brush his cheek. Hesitation, John guesses. Normally he would flinch away from the contact - he still suffered from trust issues, afterall - but he found himself leaning into the touch.

He'd even go as far as to say he wanted more contact with his colleague...No, not colleague - more than that. Flatmate? Friend? No, neither of them either. John decides that the relationship between himself and Sherlock isn't something that can be summed up with words; it's undefinable.

Neither man speaks or moves.

"I'm glad nobody was here to see this," John breaks the silence.

Sherlock furrows his brow, "See what?"

"You and me in the closet together. It's guaranteed to start rumours."


	10. Caring doesn't make a difference, John

Title: Of Doctors and Detectives  
Chapter Summary: Caring doesn't make a difference no matter how much Sherlock wishes it did.

* * *

John Watson was always going to die.

From the moment John had left Afghanistan and limped into his life, Sherlock had known this. He was a danger to be around; people would often get in the way and end up dead. It wasn't Sherlock's fault, not directly, but everyone liked to think it was. Sherlock didn't bother to try and correct them anymore.

Sherlock had always known - in the back of his mind - that John wouldn't, and couldn't, be there with him forever. It didn't matter how much Sherlock wanted him to be. Caring doesn't make a difference, he'd told John a million and one times that it doesn't. It _really _doesn't.

No matter how much he really wishes it did.

If caring could've had a say in whether or not John died that day, he would never, ever have died. He was cared for by too many people to die, to ever die.

And most extraordinary of all he was loved - not by Sarah, or any of the other nameless faces he'd sought comfort in on different occasions.

No, John was loved by him - Sherlock Holmes - most of all.

John Watson was always going to die. But before he did, he showed a sociopath how to care.


	11. Mycroft's bugging devices

Title: Of Doctors and Detectives  
Chapter Summary: Sherlock's on the hunt for bugging devices and John keeps getting in the way.

Author's note: I haven't posted anymore drabbles for a while and put the story as complete but this idea came to me and I was wondering if anyone wants me to continue?

* * *

Sherlock prowls around the room like a lion hunting it's prey.

He ducks behind the sofa and then dives onto his stomach, svelte figure pressed flat against the wooden floor. He doesn't move for several minutes and then suddenly he does a forward roll across to the other side of the room. John is finding it increasingly difficult to ignore him.

"John," Sherlock whispers urgently. He's behind his armchair now but John still ignores him, focusing on the newspaper he's been trying to read all morning.

Sherlock hates being ignored, he's a lot like an attention-seeking child.

"John," the Detective whispers for a second time a little louder this time. He also pokes John's arm.

The Doctor gives an exasperated sigh and glances over the arm of the chair where he can see Sherlock's mop of curly hair. "Incase you haven't noticed - I'm ignoring you!" John huffs loudly ignoring the desperate shushing noises Sherlock is making in protest.

"I told you it was of urgent importance that I get rid of the cameras Mycroft had fitted in our bathroom," Sherlock whispers with a slight pout.

John rolls his eyes but lowers his voice, "What I _don't_ understand is why you had to do it while I was _in_ the shower."

"It was of urgent importance," Sherlock repeats himself with the attitude of a petulant child.

Sherlock notices movement out of the corner of his eye and without warning he dives onto John's lap and begins attacking the wall beside his armchair.

"What the _hell_ Sherlock?" John demands trying to push the lanky Detective away from him with little success.

"It's important that we remove all bugging devices from the flat," Sherlock glares down at John before dangling a newly mangled bugging device infront of his face.


	12. Why Sherlock should never go shopping

Title: Of Doctors and Detectives  
Chapter Summary: John takes Sherlock shopping. Things don't go well.

Author's note: It's a very short drabble but something I can imagine Sherlock doing. Please don't hesitate in giving me ideas for future chapters.

* * *

John taps his foot impatiently as Sherlock stops - yet again - to examine the ingredients in another box of cereal.

He fleetingly glances towards his watch and frowns at the time displayed. "Are you done yet?"

"Must I really answer such a stupid question?" Sherlock retorts but he reluctantly returns the cereal to the shelf.

"I really don't know why I put up with- Sherlock, where on earth are you going?"

John watches with an expression similar to that of an exasperated parent as Sherlock wanders over towards a shop assistant.

That's exactly what shopping with Sherlock is like for John - exasperating.

"Excuse me," Sherlock addresses the shop assistant.

The girl looks up from the shelves she's been stocking and smiles. "Can I be of any help, sir?"

"I was wondering where the acid and explosives aisle is located," Sherlock says with his trade-mark smile.

John closes his eyes and sighs.

It's going to be a long day.


	13. Sherlock watches John sleep

Title: Of Doctors and Detectives  
Chapter Summary: Sherlock stands outside John's bedroom door and listens.

Author's note: Another short drabble I wanted to add into the mix. Also wanted to explain that my collection of drabbles are *kinda* connected, as in they're set in the same sherlock/john universe, but they're not in order. In some drabbles John and Sherlock are together, in others they feel nothing but friendship for one another.

* * *

Sherlock stands outside John's bedroom door and listens.

He can hear the bed groaning in protest as John tosses and turns in his restless sleep.

If he listens carefully he can hear John's laboured breathing too.

Sherlock frowns and pushes the door open.

Sleep supposedly makes people look younger and more peaceful. Sherlock looks at John and sees the opposite of youth and peace.

John's body is tense and his face is creased with emotion Sherlock doesn't recognise or understand.

Droplets of sweat begin to form on John's forehead and his exposed chest.

Sherlock hesitates in the doorway, torn between entering the room and running away.

John whimpers into the pillow. It's barely audible but in Sherlock's ears it's deafening. His moment of hesitation is forgotten as he strides across the room to John's bed.

"It's OK, John..." Sherlock, himself, can hardly believe that the soft-spoken words are coming from his lips.

Sherlock's fingers brush through John's blonde hair repeatedly for hours while his logical mind, unsuccessfully, attempts to deduce what's happening to him.


	14. Invincible

Title: Of Doctors and Detectives  
Chapter Summary: Sometimes John forgets that Sherlock isn't invincible.

Author's note: Time for a less light-hearted chapter. This was supposed to be a chapter where John realises how strange it is to think about Sherlock being anything other than 'invincible' but then it kinda turned into a *John hates Moriarty* chapter. Anyway please read, review and give suggestions for more drabbles.

* * *

Sometimes John forgets that Sherlock isn't invincible.

He looks peaceful; his entire body is relaxed, unguarded, and a halo of ebony curls frame his face making his features look strangely angelic.

John has never noticed just how young Sherlock looks. He looks much too young and much too vulnerable lying still in the hospital bed...

Sherlock's body is just as perfect as John always imagined it to be. John's not ashamed to say it's something he's imagined a lot. His tawny eyes travel shamelessly across Sherlock's beautiful exposed chest, desperately drinking in each detail as though he'll never see it again.

"God," John murmurs to himself before sitting down on the hideous orange chair next to the bed.

He can hear the heart rate monitor in the background beeping steadily. His own heart is pounding in perfect time with it.

"John?" Sherlock's voice sounds strangled and hoarse. John pours him a glass of water.

After draining half the glass Sherlock speaks again. "What happened?"

"You were shot. Don't you remember?" John replies cautiously.

Sherlock raises an eyebrow, "I'm aware that I was shot, John. What happened to _Moriarty_?"

Well of course. John should've known Sherlock would want to know about Moriarty.

"He's alive," John answers shortly. He knows that's all Sherlock really wants to know.

Sherlock considers this new information for a moment and then nods. Neither man speaks because there's nothing left to say.

The pink phone, forgotten until now, beeps.

John frowns, Sherlock grins and the games start all over again.


	15. Halloween, or is it Christmas?

Title: Of Doctors and Detectives  
Chapter Summary: Sherlock decorates the flat for the wrong holiday.

Author's note: Happy Halloween! Have a pointless drabble.

* * *

John is speechless.

In the time it's taken for him to return from the supermarket the flat has been completely transformed.

The walls are covered in Christmas decorations, festive-coloured tinsel is draped over the furniture and a Holly Wreath is attached to the door.

John thinks he caught sight of some Mistletoe somewhere, too.

"What do you think?" Sherlock asks eagerly. After balancing the Angel on top of the Christmas tree he steps back and admires his work.

John shakes his head, he has no idea what to say. The flat looks brilliant, of course it does, he just doesn't understand whySherlock has decorated for Christmas in _October_.

Sherlock pouts, taking John's silence to mean he did a bad job. "It took me ages to put that stupid tree up, you could at least say _something_."

"Sorry. It looks -er, It looks very festive?" John prods at some red tinsel absent-mindedly.

Sherlock crosses his arms across his chest. "I thought people liked celebrating Christmas!"

"They do but it's not Christmas until December, Sherlock," John replies.

"You said that you were going shopping for the 'upcoming holiday'. How many other holidays are there?"

John smiles, "I was talking about Halloween." He holds up the shopping bag, which is filled with different types of sweets, for his inspection.

Sherlock considers this new information for a moment before saying, rather childishly, "I'm not taking down the decorations until after the _real _Christmas."


	16. Birthday cake

Title: Of Doctors and Detectives  
Chapter Summary: Sherlock's first attempt at making a cake.

Author's note: Have an update because I'm in a good mood making cake! Lets just say i'm having more success than Sherlock ;)

* * *

Sherlock frowns at the laptop screen (It's John's laptop - he left his own upstairs).

"Two eggs," he reads aloud, glancing towards the egg carton. He can only see one egg but he doesn't see how it can make much of a difference.

He follows the instructions and throws the egg - shell and all - into the mixing bowl.

A whole bag of sugar, an even bigger bag of flour, two tubs of butter and a carton of milk (which smells like it might've gone off some time ago) follows the egg.

Sherlock looks down at the mixture for a moment before turning back to John's laptop to read the next set of instructions...

After an hour Sherlock returns to the kitchen to take the cake out of the oven. He puts on the oven gloves, opens the oven door and is met by disaster.

The cake has exploded, any salvageable remains are burnt to a crisp. A disgusting stench floods into the kitchen, Sherlock vaguely wonders if the egg was expired as well as the milk.

He throws the entire tray into the bin and leaves the flat shouting, "Mrs. Hudson!"

* * *

When John arrives home he is shocked, to say the least.

Sherlock's hair is even more unkempt than usual. He looks a sight with a buttercup yellow apron tied loosely around his waist.

"I made you a cake," Sherlock informs him with a smile. He waves a hand towards the dining table.

John's eyes follow the movement and fall upon a magnificent cake. It's heart-shaped and decorated with pink icing which reads 'happy birthday'. "I didn't know you could cook," John says.

"You don't know a lot of things," Sherlock retorts defensively.

"Why is it the shape of a heart?" John can't help but ask.

Sherlock inwardly curses Mrs. Hudson. "I-er, the internet claimed it would appear more heart-felt," he rambles

John takes a step towards him and Sherlock swallows nervously.

"Happy birthday, John."

"Thanks for the cake Sherlock."

John closes the gap between them, bringing their lips together in a chaste kiss. He makes a mental note to thank Mrs. Hudson for the cake later.


End file.
